


Into the wild void

by 35391291



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:45:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7892770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Colours turn faint and then sharp again, as if the world stopped for a moment, and then restarted itself.</i>
</p><p>Mr Segundus reacts to magic and Childermass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the wild void

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by [Thomas Lanchester](https://hurtfew.wikispaces.com/The+Language+of+Birds).

Magic is everywhere. It is in the cracked, soiled porcelain of Mr Segundus's breakfast cup of tea, and coiled around the buttons missing from his coat. It steps on the cobblestones, goes aboard the carriages, and huddles with the bittersweet evening fog as well, woven into the tricks played by the wind. It hides in cats' eyes and ravens' feathers, precisely as it should.

Magic is everywhere. Sometimes, it is in other people. Mr Segundus sees it so frequently, that he eventually stops being surprised by it. Magic wears many faces. The other magicians in the Society, for instance, are sometimes surrounded by small hints of light, perfectly round and bright, almost like oranges, but not _quite_. He also remembers the cruel roses surrounding Lady Pole and Mr Black, blooming at their mouths and taking over the entire landscape: bewitching and voluptuous, frightening, like the instincts closest to the core. He has felt the grave whisper that enveloped Mr Norrell, strict and grey like old cherished prayers and memories repeated over and over; and the almost playful visage that it takes upon Mr Strange, half-frightening and half-beckoning, with hints of reckless youth, madness and addiction.

Magic is everywhere. It always was, and always shall be. It makes his heart ache a bit, but he has learnt to like it. That slight, sharp pain, drenched with rain, must mean that he is alive. He is still very much sensitive towards its effects, but has grown used to it. Most of the time, he can stop it from debilitating him, or making him walk around blind and helpless. He knows that when you are most weary, you become closer to belonging to it. And that is why he is still frightened: frightened of the unknown, frightened because he hears its call and desperately wants to throw every door and window wide open to answer, to cry out: _I feel you, I hear you. I am here._ So he can finally feel that he belongs somewhere.

He wants everything magic has to offer. He has thought of it loud enough, but it had never got through. Until now. And yet, he is not ready for magic to crash into him like a storm. A storm made of little, almost quaint details. Everyday happenings that he has failed to notice before: a small sigh over an obscure sentence in one of his books, a new bit of grey in his hair, a jug of spoilt milk, or an upset basin. Things he thought he had forgot about, but that end up keeping him awake at night, their insignificance making him toss and turn, _turning_ into something essential.

There is a subtlety to this magic, like the crackle of lightning before a storm. Like the spirit of water, and the wounds in the full face of the moon. It brings along a hint of danger. A warning, like a wisp of smoke in the distance. A reminder of black Northern history, fact and legend. Notion and miracle intertwined.

He still cannot understand the how and the why, and even less so, the when: the exact moment he stopped feeling the magic and became a part of it. Truth be told, he has seen and felt the magic surrounding Childermass from the very beginning. How could he have not? But knowing it as such was another thing. His hair like a fall of black rain, his face like a twisted root. He noticed, but he should have _known_.

Now, after all these years, he has learnt to see the subtleties. Each time Childermass leans against a wall and thinks. The way he draws his cards. The twisting of his pipe around his fingers. His handwriting, making the words flow like wild untamed ravens, like a little storm. Shared spiced wine and conversations that last through the night. These are casual, unorchestrated gestures, but also so much more: they mean recognition, a mirror held up to himself, an unknown new language, a communion with a touch of everything that is slightly forbidden and profane. It must have something to do with both of them being able to work magic now. It makes them share an equal view, and point them towards a specific place. The knowledge of it is wild and violent, like an axe splintering a frozen pond. But it is a life-saving act, an anchor and a lifeline. It is the foundation stone, it is the beginning, the word. The madness and the logic. Everything that is certain.

The dreams born at midnight are not as threatening as they used to be, but he is still slightly afraid, minding his steps as if walking around broken glass. How to tell reality apart from a feverish dream or simple enchantment? Is it all part of the magic, and will it fade away with the dawn? He thinks that perhaps it is time to dismantle these old dreams, and replace them with something better, something beautiful, something found under the crossroads and the sharp light of the sky.

He is slowly learning that the needles around Childermass's mouth won't brand or hurt him at all. Neither will his rough but surprisingly kind hands. He catches himself wishing to be deep inside the pocket of his coat. Safe, alive. Colours turn faint and then sharp again, as if the world stopped for a moment, and then restarted itself. Everything that once felt melancholic and sad, now somehow feels right. Unsurprisingly, magic is both the compass and the destination. It is everywhere, and everything. There are more questions than answers, but it's alright. Sometimes, there is no logical explanation, nor does he want one: magic _is_ other people.


End file.
